


Still Life

by johnnygossamer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnygossamer/pseuds/johnnygossamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an au. sam and dean never knew each other.<br/>inspired by/named after the song "still life" by the horrors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Life

When Sam woke, there was an ache in his heart, a pervading throb that stung like the edges of burnt metal, sharp and hot and hollow. He’d had another dream.

It had been going on for months, now. Every night when he fell asleep, he would dream of a different life— one where he had a brother, who laughed and smiled and drank and frowned and killed and protected, one that Sam knew inside and out, one that wasn’t actually real. They did things unimaginable, things that only exist on television shows with cheesy digital effects and an all-female fanbase, but the things they did, they did together, and Sam couldn’t believe half the imagination he never knew he possessed.

Sitting in wait, Sam expected the dreams to fade away eventually. They never did, though— they began getting more vivid, more like memories being imprinted in his head during REM cycles. It was the weirdest feeling he’d ever had before, and he rather liked it, a secret thrill.

Demons didn’t actually exist, he knew, but sometimes— sometimes he wished they did. Maybe then he’d be dreaming of having a normal life, with his wife and his law degree and his house on the California coast. Maybe then he’d be living the (literal) life of his dreams, the one he fears he’s starting to prefer.

The realization came to him on a cold Sunday morning, mug of coffee cooling in his hands, eyes glazed over as they stared out to the shoreline from the kitchen window. Jess was awake and about, his peripheral senses told him, and she’d be leaving for work soon. A kiss to the temple and a sip from his mug and she was out the door, the house quiet and eerily still.

In the silence, he sat and waited. Waited and waited and waited for something to happen, some sort of revelation or apocalypse or omen— something to let him know what was real.

Sam couldn’t help but feel the hollow echo of a wrong life.

Chasing this idea, these dreams, had never occurred to Sam as a logical course of action. They were dreams, for Christ’s sake, with demons and ghosts and a man with eyes too green to be real. And yet every day he would find himself eager to go to bed, eager to fall asleep and live. It was exhilarating, to be honest with himself, having this other life. He was a hero, he saved people, he hunted things. It was liberation from the day-to-day monotony he had in the waking world, and Sam couldn’t get over it.

Jess kept giving him looks when he’d give up for the night, stripping down and stripping away the bedsheets at the particular early hour of nine pm, but she didn’t question it, just calling Sam her “precious, hard-working man” and shutting the light off for him.

He didn’t tell Jess about the dreams— the dreams where she didn’t exist, where she was the dark stain of ash on the ceiling of their bedroom. He kept them to himself, his own private escape.

He couldn’t help the feeling, though, that somewhere out there, the universe had screwed up. He was sick of waiting. This was not his beautiful house. This was not his beautiful wife.

—

It happened over a drawn-out period of time. Sam wasn’t sure exactly how long (too much sleep messes up your internal clock) and quite frankly, it had been long enough. Too long. He folded his last button-up neatly, pressing away the wrinkles, and placed it in the duffel bag.

Jess, with worried eyes and crossed arms, stared from the doorway of the bedroom.

“Where are you going, Sam?” she asked, voice quiet, scared. Sam looked up with his brows pinched, and he eased a smile onto his lips.

(“The garage, I’m looking for something,” he had answered, determined eyes searching furiously for something he knew didn’t exist. He heard Jess open the door behind him, following curiously.

“What’re you looking for, exactly?” She asked, stepping over a box Sam shoved aside. He mumbled something in response, drawing up another box and ripping it open. He brought out an old, dusty picture frame from it, staring intently.)

“I need to do something, baby. I— I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I’ll have my phone, and I—” He stammered, unsure. Jess pulled another concerned look.

“Is this about something between us, Sam? Are you not happy?”

“No! No, I’m, I’m really happy here. With you, with everything.” He pressed his lips together, searching for words. “There’s just something that is pulling me away, and I can’t ignore it anymore. But I’ll be back, okay?”

(“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Jess whispered over his shoulder, staring down at the torn family photo. It trembled in Sam’s hand, and he swallowed before responding.

“I don’t.”)

His tone was soft and comforting, mirroring his smile, but Jess let a tear fall from her eye despite it all, still convinced that Sam was leaving for good.

To be honest, Sam had no idea if he was coming back or not. All he knew was that he needed to find his brother.

—

Three months, six weeks, five days. As soon as Sam had left on his journey, self-titled “The Idiotic and Inevitably-A-Failure Expedition to Find the Man of My Dreams”, he stopped dreaming. No more brother, no more hunting, nothing.

For the first few days, Sam couldn’t decide whether it meant he was doing the right thing or if he had just screwed his dreams up for good. But perseverance and hope fought through, and he put his beat up old Toyota back into drive and kept going wherever his heart led him.

It was ridiculous, he realized this before he even stepped out the door, but he knew this was something he had to do. Some gravitational force had him by the throat and wouldn’t let him rest until he did this.

Sam just hoped that his brother was out there somewhere, feeling the same thing.

—

Miles pass like hours, and Sam’s had enough of lonely diner booths and too-quiet motel rooms, preferring some nights to the backseat of his shitty car, but eventually the cramps in his legs screamed out for him to give up. Every good feeling in his gut told him to keep looking, and so he did.

He drove, and slept, and ate, and searched. He drove and drove until he started recognizing cities, churches, a prison. A hospital, a police department. An abandoned asylum. The midwest was full of mismatched memories, scrapes and bits he could piece together from his dreams.

(“Does it bother you at all how easily you seem to fit in here?” He asked his brother, who was sporting a fresh bruise, blossoming purple and green beneath his eye, fading the sun-washed freckles.

“No, not really.” He responded curtly, playful smile hiding behind a serious tone.)

Sam shook his head, dialogue echoed and distant in his mind. No, he had to keep going. He was so close, he could feel it.

At night, anticipation leaked into his thoughts instead of dreams. His stomach clenched and his hands shook and his chest ached like it did the first time he saw his brother, that hollow gash between his lungs.

He didn’t sleep well once he hit Kansas.

In front of an old house with a screen door that nearly fell off its hinges, in some small town by the name of Lawrence, Sam parked his car and stepped outside into the chilly midwestern air, pulling his coat around his chest. The air tasted stale and wrong, somehow, and Sam grimaced as he shifted from foot to foot, unsure why exactly he was here.

But he decided to wait. He waited, and waited, and waited, until the sun went down and the air grew cold and he couldn’t feel his toes any longer, and finally gave in and ran up the porch (second step squeaks, you know that) of the house.

Inside, dust had settled over everything. The house was empty, barren. Probably never even lived in, Sam thought, brushing his hand over the stair banister. He slept on a makeshift bed of his jacket and a few sheets he found, laying them on the floor in one of the bedrooms. At night, he dreamed about a baby in a crib, and a little boy with freckles and floppy blonde hair, and a family, happy and settled.

—

Two mornings later, when Sam had nearly given up on waiting waiting waiting, he heard a distinct (familiar) rumble pulling up to the rickety house. Heart thumping in his chest, he threw off the sheets and raced down the stairs, throwing open the door to stand on the porch. And sure enough— a shiny black Chevy Impala sat out front, a weary-looking green-eyed man stepping out, squinting in the early sun.

Sam’s heart caught in his throat.

He stood frozen on the porch, staring with his mouth open. The man registered the house first, giving it a once-over, before noticing Sam gawking like an idiot, and the man’s expression nearly matched.

“… Dean?” Sam managed to rasp out, throat dry despite holding his breath. The man flinched in recognition and stepped forward, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

“Sam.” He said simply, one foot on the first porch step, looking up at Sam like he did in Sam’s dreams. It was indescribable— he was real, he’s real, he’s here—

Sam felt himself moving forward before he registered that he wanted to, pulled in by Dean’s presence, their eyes locked on each other in some sort of silent game of Q & A, and when their lips met it felt like everything was finally right in his life.

Dean tasted like pine oak and leather and black coffee, and Sam let his hands wander to the nape of Dean’s neck, pressing them closer. Nothing was like it, not Jess, not any girl he’d kissed, not any boy he experimented with. It just felt right.

When they parted, Dean’s eyes flicked up to Sam’s, his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Sam moved to speak, but he had nothing to say.

“I guess it’s safe to say you’ve been havin’ crazy dreams too, right?” Dean asked, his voice husky and low and sweet, the way Sam remembered.

“Y-yeah. God, yeah.” He laughed breathlessly, just staring at Dean. “I knew they meant something, they couldn’t just be— dreams, meaningless. I followed where they led me.”

Dean nodded in agreement, sharing the sentiment, understanding. He told Sam he was out in Maine, making his way down, remembering water wraiths and haunted houses and a fair share of demons along his way.

Neither of them spoke about being brothers, and neither spoke about the kiss, or the way their hearts felt, or the subtle leave of that ever-haunting hollowness they carried with them.


End file.
